Glossology
James/Jack, rated R, 700+ words. Inspired by the occasion of Jack Davenport's birthday. Also by The Poisonwood Bible's description of the okapi: A unicorn that could look you in the eye.
(ao3)
--
'Do you believe in unicorns, Jim?' Jack asks one night. He never says Jim unless the word is soaked with either rum or sex.
'I don't,' James begins, and considers. 'I don't not believe in them.'
'What, really?' Jack rises up on an elbow, hair clinking. He looks thrown.
'Yes, really.' Amused, James rolls on to his side to peer up at his companion in the candlelight.
'You. Commodore Norrington of His Majesty's Royal Navy. You believe in unicorns.'
'I said I don't not believe in them. Not the same as believing.'
Jack waves his words away. 'That's just glossology, mate. Or mathematics. Two negatives make a positive. That sort of thing.' His eyes get a little dreamy, and James knows what's coming next. 'Did I ever tell you about the time I-'
'Sparrow.'
'What?'
'You were saying something about unicorns.' James is nothing if not a patient man. Then again, good rum and good sex go a long way in increasing a man's tolerance. He isn't quite sure which of the two is guiding Sparrow's words at the moment. He doesn't much care. The night, warmed by a balmy drift and by Moroccan incense, is of the kind that's made for indulgence.
Jack slides a hand up James's chest, fingers lightly circling his throat, pressing until James gives in and drops his head back against his pillow. He does mean to indulge, after all, and the road to that doesn't involve refusal. Jack takes a moment to trail his fingertips appreciatively through James's unbound hair, unkempt from their earlier activities.
'Going to the Kongo next week,' he says. 'Come with me and I'll show you one.'
‘A unicorn?’ James arches lazily into the fingers that dance lightly over his bare stomach, moving downward, following James’s trail of hair beneath the covers.
‘Something like that.’
James turns his head on the pillow, and Jack’s thumb presses into the hollow at the base of his throat. ‘Just like that,’ Jack says.
It’s an invitation rather than a warning, and one James is happy to accept. He makes a sound of assent, his limbs loosening, his gaze trailing languidly over Jack’s face. Beneath the sheets, Jack’s finger taps against his thigh, and James lets his legs fall open, lets Jack hold him with his palm over James’s throat.
‘It’s not quite a unicorn,’ Jack says, conversational. He gives James a sudden grin. ‘But close enough.’
Jack’s mouth is against James’s cheek, trailing from the corner of his mouth to his earlobe, moustache leaving a faint burn in its wake. His hidden hand moves between James’s legs and beneath him, searching.
‘Hnn.’ James’s hips arch upward helplessly as Jack bites down lightly on his ear. ‘Just like that,’ Jack says again, mouth like a brand against James’s skin.
‘When your kind discover it,’ Jack murmurs, ‘they’ll probably give it a fancy name. Something nomenclaturish.’
‘My kind.’ He’s impaled on a finger like an insect on a pin, but he’s still capable of injecting an accusation into his tone. Jack’s fingers squeeze over his throat, as though absorbing the words through his skin.
James wriggles, impatient, and Jack laughs. ‘Patience, love.’ He kisses James’s ear again, with more intent this time, his tongue licking around the shell of it.
James forces himself to remain still under the ministrations, which, truth be told, aren’t unwelcome. He wriggles an arm free-it’s been going numb under Jack’s weight-and slides it around Jack, fingertips trailing up his spine and into the thick mess of his hair. Jack’s skin, inked and scarred, is several shades darker than James’s, but in the dim light, it's almost as though they're of a kind. (He’s never asked about Jack’s origins, reluctant to involve himself even more deeply into the narrative of Jack’s story than he already is. He imagines travelling to Africa with Jack. How the colour of his skin would betray him, brand him an outsider while Jack charmed his way into the cultures and hearts of the people there.)
‘Commodore,’ Jack says, a tinge of sharpness around the word, and James snaps his gaze up to Jack’s face. Jack’s finger does a wicked little twist inside him, and James’s lips part against a noisy exhale.
‘That’s more like it,’ Jack says, pleased. Approving. He withdraws his finger, smiles at the sound of protest that James lets out. His palm slides up, cupping James’s jaw, turning his face for a kiss.
A minute later, on his hands and knees and writhing against Jack’s tongue as it laps at his hole, James’s last coherent thought is that any further conversation will have to wait until the morning.
(ao3)
--
'Do you believe in unicorns, Jim?' Jack asks one night. He never says Jim unless the word is soaked with either rum or sex.
'I don't,' James begins, and considers. 'I don't not believe in them.'
'What, really?' Jack rises up on an elbow, hair clinking. He looks thrown.
'Yes, really.' Amused, James rolls on to his side to peer up at his companion in the candlelight.
'You. Commodore Norrington of His Majesty's Royal Navy. You believe in unicorns.'
'I said I don't not believe in them. Not the same as believing.'
Jack waves his words away. 'That's just glossology, mate. Or mathematics. Two negatives make a positive. That sort of thing.' His eyes get a little dreamy, and James knows what's coming next. 'Did I ever tell you about the time I-'
'Sparrow.'
'What?'
'You were saying something about unicorns.' James is nothing if not a patient man. Then again, good rum and good sex go a long way in increasing a man's tolerance. He isn't quite sure which of the two is guiding Sparrow's words at the moment. He doesn't much care. The night, warmed by a balmy drift and by Moroccan incense, is of the kind that's made for indulgence.
Jack slides a hand up James's chest, fingers lightly circling his throat, pressing until James gives in and drops his head back against his pillow. He does mean to indulge, after all, and the road to that doesn't involve refusal. Jack takes a moment to trail his fingertips appreciatively through James's unbound hair, unkempt from their earlier activities.
'Going to the Kongo next week,' he says. 'Come with me and I'll show you one.'
‘A unicorn?’ James arches lazily into the fingers that dance lightly over his bare stomach, moving downward, following James’s trail of hair beneath the covers.
‘Something like that.’
James turns his head on the pillow, and Jack’s thumb presses into the hollow at the base of his throat. ‘Just like that,’ Jack says.
It’s an invitation rather than a warning, and one James is happy to accept. He makes a sound of assent, his limbs loosening, his gaze trailing languidly over Jack’s face. Beneath the sheets, Jack’s finger taps against his thigh, and James lets his legs fall open, lets Jack hold him with his palm over James’s throat.
‘It’s not quite a unicorn,’ Jack says, conversational. He gives James a sudden grin. ‘But close enough.’
Jack’s mouth is against James’s cheek, trailing from the corner of his mouth to his earlobe, moustache leaving a faint burn in its wake. His hidden hand moves between James’s legs and beneath him, searching.
‘Hnn.’ James’s hips arch upward helplessly as Jack bites down lightly on his ear. ‘Just like that,’ Jack says again, mouth like a brand against James’s skin.
‘When your kind discover it,’ Jack murmurs, ‘they’ll probably give it a fancy name. Something nomenclaturish.’
‘My kind.’ He’s impaled on a finger like an insect on a pin, but he’s still capable of injecting an accusation into his tone. Jack’s fingers squeeze over his throat, as though absorbing the words through his skin.
James wriggles, impatient, and Jack laughs. ‘Patience, love.’ He kisses James’s ear again, with more intent this time, his tongue licking around the shell of it.
James forces himself to remain still under the ministrations, which, truth be told, aren’t unwelcome. He wriggles an arm free-it’s been going numb under Jack’s weight-and slides it around Jack, fingertips trailing up his spine and into the thick mess of his hair. Jack’s skin, inked and scarred, is several shades darker than James’s, but in the dim light, it's almost as though they're of a kind. (He’s never asked about Jack’s origins, reluctant to involve himself even more deeply into the narrative of Jack’s story than he already is. He imagines travelling to Africa with Jack. How the colour of his skin would betray him, brand him an outsider while Jack charmed his way into the cultures and hearts of the people there.)
‘Commodore,’ Jack says, a tinge of sharpness around the word, and James snaps his gaze up to Jack’s face. Jack’s finger does a wicked little twist inside him, and James’s lips part against a noisy exhale.
‘That’s more like it,’ Jack says, pleased. Approving. He withdraws his finger, smiles at the sound of protest that James lets out. His palm slides up, cupping James’s jaw, turning his face for a kiss.
A minute later, on his hands and knees and writhing against Jack’s tongue as it laps at his hole, James’s last coherent thought is that any further conversation will have to wait until the morning.